


Meeting Death

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also Death as a Character, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Character Death, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Outsider, Self-Harm, Suicide, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire first met Death when he was five. Ever since, Death has followed him through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Death

**Author's Note:**

> This was a product of twenty hours of driving in one weekend. I have really no excuse beyond that.
> 
> Please read the tags for warnings.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I own nothing but my typos, though claim copyright to any tears shed on behalf of anything I've written.

Grantaire first met Death when he was five.

He was sitting in his bedroom, underneath his blanket that he had turned into a tent, shining his flashlight inside. He heard rather than saw Death, though of course he didn’t know it was Death. But still, he heard the footsteps, and when he peeked outside, he saw a boy standing there, about his age, with tousled blond hair, wearing a t-shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee. “Hello,” Grantaire said pleasantly, with the innocently clear voice of a child. “Would you like to play in my fort?”

Death cocked his head slightly and smiled. “Sure,” he said softly, crawling in after him.

They say cross-legged and stared at each other. “Who’re you?” Grantaire asked, picking up his teddy bear and hugging it to his chest.

"I’m Death," Death said.

Grantaire frowned. “No you’re not,” Grantaire told him sternly. “Death’s a skeleton with a big black robe. ‘Sides, no one’s dead here.” He paused, biting his lip thoughtfully, and then asked, “Are you here for Sammy?”

Death shook his head. “No,” he said, a little sadly. “I’m here for you.”

Now Grantaire laughed, a bright peal of laughter that rang with life, so much that Death almost flinched. “No you’re not,” he chortled. “I’m not dead. I’m alive!”

Frowning, Death started to reply when Grantaire said softly, “You must be here for Sammy. Sammy’s been really sick and Mommy says Sammy’s gonna go up to Heaven soon, so you must be here for him.”

"Is Sammy your brother?" Death asked gently.

Grantaire shook his head. “No. My dog.”

Death stared at him, almost blankly. “Your dog?” he repeated. “No, I’m not here for your dog. I don’t come for dogs.”

Brow wrinkled, Grantaire asked, “Why not? Sammy’s been a good dog. He’ll go to Heaven for sure.”

There was a long pause as if Death was trying to figure out what to say. Finally, he said softly, “It doesn’t matter if he’s been a good boy, and I’m sure he has. Dogs don’t…they don’t come with me. They don’t  _need_  to come with me.”

Grantaire shrugged, unconcerned. “It has to be Sammy. No one else is dying.”

Cocking his head slightly, Death paused, searching through the rooms in the house with his mind before asking slowly, “Is your Grandma here?”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah. She’s staying here for awhile. She was sick for awhile but Daddy says she’ll be better soon.”

"Ah," Death said slowly. He closed his eyes and a second and when he had opened them, he was no longer a little boy, but instead an old man, bent slightly with a silvery mustache. If Grantaire had been older, he would have recognized the man as his grandfather, who had died two years before. Death smiled at him, but Grantaire was unfazed. "I’m going to go now," Death told him gently. "If you’re lucky, I won’t see you for a long time."

Death crawled out of the blanket fort and stood stiffly. Grantaire watched him leave his room, turning towards the room where his grandma was sleeping. Then he went back into his blanket fort, and didn’t leave again until his mom came to told him that his grandma had gone to Heaven.

Grantaire just nodded. “I figgered,” he said, almost cheerfully. “I thought Death was here for Sammy but I guess not.”

His mom gave him an odd look, but decided not to ask.

* * *

 

It was several years before Grantaire saw Death again.

He was eleven now, no longer the boy who crawled around under a blanket fort. Now he was a thin, wan boy bordering on puberty and awkwardness who had spent much of the past year sitting at the side of his mother’s hospital bed.

Death was different too, a lanky, awkward-looking boy with blond hair that flopped into his eyes. “Hello again,” Grantaire told him, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he woke up from sleep to find Death standing there. “You’re Death, right?”

"You remember me?" Death asked cautiously.

Grantaire shrugged. “Sure,” he said off-handedly. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

Death frowned and rubbed his acne-marked cheek. “You’re not supposed to remember,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry for that.”

"Not your fault," Grantaire told him, his voice light. "I assume you’re here for my mom?" When Death nodded, Grantaire seemed to deflate slightly, and his eyes filled with tears, though he nodded and said bravely, "That’s good. She’s been sick for so long…"

He trailed off, but Death understood. Death always understood, and he stood there quietly for a few moments as Grantaire cried. When Grantaire had finished, had brushed the last tears off of his face, he asked Death hoarsely, “Why can I see you?”

There was a long moment as Death weighed what exactly he should tell Grantaire, but being Death, he was not a big believer in lying or sugarcoating. It all came out in the end, after all. “Some people…some people are followed by Death. They’re Death-marked, so to speak,” Death told him in a low voice. “Death…Death just follows them. Normally it’s easy to tell who is going to die, but with someone Death-marked, the only thing that can be sensed is that it’s someone near to that person, which registers as that person him or herself being the one.”

"How many people are Death-marked?" Grantaire asked quietly. “How many people are like me?”

Death shrugged. “It is…impossible to tell. You have to understand. I am Death, but Death is many things, in many places, in many times.”

Grantaire nodded, his brow furrowed, and though he clearly wanted to ask more about the nature of Death, he changed tactics. “Is it…is it a hard thing? To die?”

"I would not know," Death told him gently. "I am not alive and thus cannot die. But I have never met anyone who did not come with me gently. All come with me in their time."

"Why do you look like you do?" Grantaire asked. “Is it to make it easier for people to go with you, so that they fight you less?”

Death nodded. “I take the form of what would be most comfortable for the person about to die. This—” He gestured as his clothes and body “—this is most comfortable for you. For your mother, it may be something different. Many times it’s a person who they have loved and who has gone before them. For some people I appear as the god they worship or a religious figure. It does not matter who calls them, so long as they come.”

Though Grantaire nodded again, his expression was troubled, and after a long moment, he said quietly, “Go take my mom. She…she’s suffered enough.”

Death looked at the boy in front of him, the sweet, gentle boy who somehow drew Death to him, and nodded. “May we not meet again for many years.”

* * *

 

Grantaire was sixteen, and Death was trying to keep him alive.

Death was a teenager dressed mostly in black, his blond hair hanging limply in front of his eyes, and his pale hands were wrapped around Grantaire’s wrist, struggling to stop the bleeding from his self-inflicted wounds. “It’s not your time,” Death told him furiously. “You’re not to come with me yet.”

Grantaire’s eyes were closed, one eye swollen shut from where his dad had punched him earlier that evening, and his back was black and blue and oozing blood from the belt marks. He reeked of alcohol, but it was the deep slice down his forearm that worried Death (that and the fact that it was over other, older scars), along with his far too shallow breathing.

Death, who at once cared more than anyone in the world while being incapable of caring about anyone, hugged Grantaire close to him and pressed his hand tighter against the wound. “It’s not your time,” he told him again, ignoring the stuttering final breaths from Grantaire’s father who had passed out in a stupor on the couch.

* * *

 

Death was an average-looking college student, and Grantaire was in love. Death watched from outside the café as Grantaire raised the bottle to his lips, his eyes never leaving the blond man speaking at the front of the room.

Though Grantaire looks healthier than when Death saw him last, he still wasn’t quite whole, dark circles around his eyes, his bottle emptying far too quickly for Death’s liking, knowing too well the effects alcohol had on the body. Still, Grantaire’s face seemed to light up whenever the blond man so much as glanced his way, and if Death’s eyes weren’t deceiving him, Grantaire was sketching a remarkable likeness of the blond.

Then Grantaire was saying something, leaning forward and gesturing with the bottle in his hand, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, and Death watched the blond’s eyebrows knit together as he frowned deeply at Grantaire, who, despite the sardonic look on his face, was looking at the blond almost reverently (and Death though he might see something glimmering in the blond man’s eyes behind the disgust as he looked at Grantaire).

Shaking his head, Death turned away, toward the homeless man coughing heavily in the alley behind the Musain. He would see Grantaire again, with or without the blond man.

* * *

 

The blond’s name was Enjolras, Death learned late one night a few years later. It’s the first thing Grantaire told him after he woke to find Death leaning awkwardly against his bedroom door frame, raising an eyebrow at the sleeping form next to Grantaire. “That’s Enjolras,” Grantaire told him after he had ushered Death into the living, closing the bedroom door softly behind him, a goofy smile spreading across his face. “He’s…yeah.”

"As long as you’re happy," Death told him, his eyes flickering down to the scar hidden by Grantaire’s pajama shirt.

Grantaire blushed slightly but stared determinedly back at Death. “That was a long time ago,” he said in a low voice. “And this has nothing I do with that. I’m not even the same person I was back then. And Enjolras…” He trailed off, his voice turning soft. “Enjolras is insufferable, and completely naïve, thinking he can change the world. But I love him. And he loves me. And that’s enough for me.”

Death nodded, expression inscrutable. After a long moment, he asked in a quiet, strange-sounding voice, “What’s it like?”

Frowning, Grantaire asked, “What’s what like?”

"Being in love. What’s it like?"

Grantaire stared at Death for a long moment, expression completely blank. Then he swallowed, and wet his lips almost nervously. “It’s like…it’s like you were never really alive before you met this person. It’s like your life has become irrevocably tangled with his, as if every breath you take is in tandem. It’s as if every feeling is heightened, everything both more beautiful and more terrible at the same time. It’s all the best of life rolled into one.”

Though Death nodded, his expression did not change, and Grantaire wondered for a moment if Death understood, if Death could ever understand an emotion, the only emotion, in fact, that withstood his clutches, that survived in spite of his embrace. So Grantaire cleared his throat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “So who are you here to take this time?”

“Your next-door neighbor,” Death said off-handedly, his expression still odd. “She has kidney failure and will not last out the night.”

Grantaire nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but then they both heard Enjolras call out from the bedroom, “Grantaire?”

Instantly turning toward the sound of the voice as if it was an anchor or a lifeline, Grantaire called gently, “Be right there!”

He turned back to Death, who inclined his head slightly. “Are you going to tell him about me? About your…situation?”

Grantaire just laughed. “Enjolras believes in many things that I would consider fantastical, but this is quite beyond him, I think.” He flashed a smile more genuine than any he had shared with Death, and added, “If it weren’t for the fact that it’s happening to me, I’m not sure I would believe it.”

* * *

 

When Death next saw Grantaire, Grantaire was crying, and was drunk, and was alone.

He was down by the river, sitting on a bench, knees drawn up to his chest as he shook with noiseless sobs. Death did not touch him - unsure if it would help - though he cleared his throat from where he stood behind him. “It’s you, I suppose?” Grantaire asked almost bitterly, without turning around. “Have you finally come for me? Have I finally reached my time and can be done with this miserable existence?”

“I’m afraid not,” Death told him, though the words seemed to stick in his throat, and any attempt at levity was lost. “Please tell me you’re not thinking of trying something stupid. Again. Especially with why I’m here.”

Grantaire shifted slightly, still not turning to look at him. “Why are you here?”

Death turned his gaze to the nearby bridge. “A man is about to throw himself off of that bridge and drown.”

His tone was indifferent, and Grantaire shivered. “Why is he going to kill himself?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

“I do not know,” Death said in a tone that said more  _I do not care_. “My business is never with the ‘why’ when people die, only the assurance that they die when they are supposed to.” His eyes slid from the bridge and back to Grantaire. “And not a minute before.”

When Grantaire did not say anything, Death sighed slightly. “While we are on the subjects of ‘whys’, do you wish to tell me why you’re demanding Death before your time?”

“Enjolras and I fought,” Grantaire said hollowly, staring down at the water. “He said…well, it doesn’t matter, not…” He glanced nervously over at the bridge. “It…it seems a bit stupid now.”

Death’s mouth quirked slightly. “I’m sure you are not the only one who has thought so.” He paused for a moment, then said awkwardly, “He…you still love him, do you not? I do not know much about love, but I know that it would be something that should make you want to avoid coming with me.”

Grantaire was silent, then turned to face Death, his expression thoughtful. “I do love him. And I don’t…I don’t want to die. To leave him.”

“Then go,” Death told him, gently. “Go back to him. Leave me here. Your place is with the one you love - with the living.” Grantaire reached out, tentatively, and touched his shoulder lightly. “Go,” Death repeated. “My place is here.”

Grantaire left him then, and Death stared after him, wondering once again about things that he would never know.

* * *

 

Grantaire and Enjolras were curled on a couch together, both older than they had previously looked, a bit of gray streaking Grantaire’s hair. Their fingers were laced together, and Death could just see matching silver rings on their ring fingers.

Snow was falling lightly outside, and if Death had been human, he might have shivered at the cold. As it was, his face pressed close to the glass, watching the two figures so curled up in each other neither would have noticed anyone else, a fire flickering cheerfully in the fireplace, he was briefly glad that he was not human, that his breath would not fog the glass and mar the image of happiness he saw before him.

His job called him further down the road, but for the moment, Death was content to linger here, to watch such joy and love that he could never touch, even as his fingers splayed against the glass.

* * *

 

But even their happiness was not untouchable, and one evening, not too many years later, Death arrived for a job he had never hoped to have. Grantaire was huddled in a chair next to the bed, Enjolras laid out on top of it, and when Death cleared his throat, Grantaire made a noise like a wounded animal and stared around wildly. “No!” he hissed, his voice hoarse from crying. “I won’t let you.”

“You have no choice,” Death told him sadly, walking toward the bed, looking at the bullet wound in Enjolras’s chest, the bullet wound that was claiming his life.

Grantaire shook his head. “There’s always a choice,” he told Death, his voice shaking, fists balled up at his sides. “You  _can’t_  take him. I love him and I need him and you…you…” He was crying too hard for words now, and Death just shook his head.

“In this, there is no choice. For you or for him.”

“Please!” Grantaire begged, grabbing the front of Death’s shirt, gripping him tightly. “Please. Every time you’ve come, every time I’ve been marked, it’s been for someone else. Just…just let it be me this time. Take me instead. And let him live. Don’t take him.”

Death’s voice was low as he replied, almost incredulous, “You would give yourself for him, let me take you in his stead?”

“I would do anything for him,” Grantaire replied, letting go of Death to grip Enjolras’s hand in his. “I love him. And he…he has so much more than he can do, that he should do. He was going to change the world and there’s still time, there has to still be time. Please - if not for me, for everyone that he can help, everyone he  _will_  help.”

Staring at Grantaire with fathomless eyes, Death told him softly, “That is not the way things work. I cannot make the choice for who dies and who lives, no matter what they may do if they had more time left.” He paused before adding in a voice impossibly gentle, “Nor can you take his place. This rule is as unbreakable as any of the rest.”

Grantaire shook his head, gripping Enjolras’s hand even tighter. “No, no, no,” he repeated, over and over, bending over so that his forehead rested against Enjolras’s, whispering things to him that no one - perhaps Death included - was meant to hear.

Death stood at his shoulder, resting a hand on his back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. As he kept vigil, watching as Grantaire sobbed and shook and told Enjolras everything he had always wanted to say, always had been unable to say, all the things that had remained unspoken between them, Death began to think that he may have understood what love was now.

* * *

 

Grantaire sat on that same bed not even a week later, silent and numb, looking up when the door opened, his eyes widening at the sight of Enjolras standing in the doorway, looking at him sadly. “Enjolras—” Grantaire started, half-standing.

Enjolras stepped towards him, though he did not reach out to him, keeping his hands at his sides. “Grantaire.” There was an unfamiliar timbre to his voice. “Don’t do what you’re about to do.”

The look on Grantaire’s face flickered, replaced by something bitter. “Of course. I should have known. Show yourself, would you? Don’t hide in Enjolras, not now, not after everything. Show your true form.”

“Without a form, I am nothingness. A void. That is why I take a form at all.” Death did not relinquish Enjolras’s form, not truly, though the features softened somewhat, became equally less and more familiar to Grantaire. “But please, please don’t do this.”

Grantaire cracked the hint of a smile. “I thought you said there was no choice.”

Death shook his head sadly, looking far more weary than Grantaire had ever seen him, looking - well, for the first time, looking like death. “There is no choice. I just…I wish there were. For your sake. You spoke of what Enjolras could accomplish, given more time, and I just wish you could see, for once, what you could accomplish with the same time.”

Now it was Grantaire’s turn to shake his head. “Without Enjolras…” He trailed off, but he didn;t need to finish the sentence; Death knew - Death understood. After a long moment, Grantaire asked quietly, “Will I see him? When I go with you, will he and I…”

“I do not know.” Death’s voice was quiet, and he hesitated for a moment before adding, even softer, “But…if anyone can find each other, in whatever there is beyond, I have no doubt that it would be you.”

Grantaire nodded, and smiled a little, and then raised the gun that he had been cradling in his lap.

Death closed his eyes, though he knew when it happened - even without the gunshot echoing in his ears, without the sharp scent of gunpowder in the air, he knew. He always knew.

And in Enjolras’s form, he reached out to take Grantaire’s hand. “Come,” he said softly. And Grantaire’s fingers closed in his, and hand-in-hand, Death walked Grantaire to where Enjolras was waiting for him.


End file.
